Conflict of Interest

Chapter Twelve

"One night," she breathed, making her voice sound flustered and exasperated. "I just asked you, for one night."

"Are we done here? Look, we were at the precinct, for like, half an hour, maybe. And I really don't think Charlotte minded it, to be honest."

"I know she didn't mind it," she spat acridly, now in complete hysteria. "That's the worst part!"

"That's the worst part?" I repeated, badly needing clarification.

"Yes," she practically hissed. "That's the worst part. She hasn't stopped talking about it since she got home."

"She thought it was cool," I shrugged. "In fact, I even thought it was cool when I started prosecution. What's the problem?"

"The problem is, she's possessed now."

"Possessed?" I sputtered at her word choice. "Possessed how?"

"Now your police friends have gotten into my child's head," she said as though she were talking about gang bangers and drug addicts. "She says that when she grows up, she wants to be a homicide detective, just like Jennifer."

***

Kim

After thirty odd years living it, I was perfectly willing to admit that I knew very, very few things about life. You'd think that after you'd been doing anything for thirty four years, that you would be an expert. You would be able to do it all the time, and do it well, and show off how good you were at it, and most importantly, you would know everything there was to know.

There were only two fields that, after reaching adulthood, I felt fairly certain that I had achieved expertise in; one of them was investigation. The other was sex.

But life was not something I was an expert at. I didn't know what the meaning of life was, not that I contemplated it all too often. I didn't know the things a younger version of myself may have thought I would by thirty, about friendship, and relationships, and love. I still didn't understand people for the life of me, and I didn't get why they did what they did or what it all meant. I could basically have told you three truths I'd learned about life in thirty four years: One, that it's hard. Two, that it goes on even if you're not ready for it. And three, that no matter how much you try to plan for it, it never ever goes how you hope it will.

I wouldn't say that that was the reason that I'd grown into a more spontaneous person, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't contribute. The fact was, there were times when I'd tried the whole planning thing. In high school, I'd tried to make deadlines and schedules, and in college, I'd drawn up career goals once or twice. But there comes a time when you just have to throw caution to the wind and say "Fuck it," and accept the fact, the inevitable fact, that no matter how many timetables you try to make up, you have absolutely no idea where the hell your life is going. And there are the people that try to control it, people like Grace, and people like Carrie, who like to have a plan in place before they move. They like to think about the future and ensure that it will be safe and secure, and they like to think before they act and look before they leap. And that's all well and good for a time, and I guess everyone's different. But in my experience, even when you think you're right, you're wrong. So why try to preempt it? Why not just say 'I don't know,' then find out, and roll with the punches?

I guess those were the kinds of things I was contemplating when the shock washed away, the initial paralysis subsided, and I began to fully comprehend the fact that I was no longer waking up next to the one person I'd ever been sure I loved. I began to question what I could have done differently, had I only planned better. I wondered if I could have prevented it, if only I'd made a more prudent choice: Maybe if I hadn't taken the job in Green Falls, maybe if I hadn't moved there, maybe if I'd told her more often that I loved her or just given her all my trust from the get.